


Blueberry Pie

by pappylou (mayalinified)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fisting, M/M, Patriotic rimming, Pie?, the fourth of july
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayalinified/pseuds/pappylou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July 4th, 2015 and Louis flies all the way to LA to be with Harry for a holiday that neither of them celebrate</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blueberry Pie

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Larry fic which is also unbeta'd and also semi-unedited so please be very gentle with me. 
> 
> I don't claim to know anything about Louis Tomlinson's feelings towards apples. But I bet Harry loves fireworks, pie, and plants a lot. You can quote me on that.

“So you’re American now?” he teases, sticking his finger deep into the purple mush left over from what Harry used for the pie’s innards. He extracts a taste for himself, sucking on the digit and pulling off with a pop. The blueberry is tangy, makes his jaw clench up tight around the sensation.

“Never tried to make a pie before, felt right for the occasion.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow around the pucker still on his lips, deep violet stained like his finger.

“The anniversary of a revolution against the country you yourself are actually from?”

Harry pats his cheek with the oven mitt, “I live in the states now, Lou. Get with it.”

From the other side of the kitchen, Louis observes Harry bending at the waist to remove the pie from the oven. It smells gorgeous, like the sweets at Christmastime. Only now it’s so hot outside he can feel it radiating through the glass window and the air conditioning is cranked to its coldest setting. The artificial chill sends goosebumps over his exposed arms and legs.

“Then I’m sure you know the saying is ‘American as apple pie’, not blueberry.” Louis tries not to smile at the way Harry dotes on the pastry like some sort of surrogate child he’s just had the joy of delivering. Healthy baby blueberry, one pound, born on the fourth of July. He even goes so far as to lean down and take a smell, concerning Louis for a moment that he might be fool enough to kiss the scalding crust.

Harry snaps his head towards him after a moment, not having moved an inch from the way he’s lent over the countertop to take in his hard work. His brows are furrowed only slightly, twitching with feigned seriousness.

“Well somebody doesn’t like apple tarts...I only assumed apple pie would fall into the same category.”

“I don’t like warm, soggy apples!”

Gracefully he stands, sauntering in Louis’ direction. Harry grins. Bleach-white teeth bracketed by dimples and charming as ever despite the goofy way he widens his eyes.

“Just want you to want to eat my pie, Lou,” he drawls, closing the space with a big hand on Louis’ lower back and the kiss of their hip bones as he pulls him up to his height as best he can.

Louis snorts, dodging the kisses Harry assaults him with. They land everywhere but his lips. Eyelid, eyebrow, sharp cheek bone, chin.

“I eat your pie once a week, you pervert,” Louis is giggling now. In that private way he does when nobody else was around to see it. In the way he used to. In the way Liam would poke fun at and glance slyly from the corner of his eye for. Since, after all, that sort of laugh only seemed to coming bubbling out for one person and one person alone.

“Y’gonna eat my pie tonight?” Harry asks from the juncture of Louis’ neck and shoulder where his lips are buried. No kisses there so much as Harry mouthing with wet lips, licking around the jutting tendons and stiff muscles.

Louis chuckles again, rolling his eyes as he clutches with one hand at the back of Harry’s neck, “Mm, rather forward.”

“S’an unwritten rule I’ve heard. Just what they do in the States.”

He loses it at that, clutching Harry’s shirt and dragging him backwards with him as he stumbles into the countertop. He’s laughing so hard it hurts - since the night before had been...athletic to say the least. It doesn’t help, either, that Harry’s weight is pressing him into the granite edge. His feet scramble beneath to find purchase as he’s huffing out laughter.

“Fucking rimjobs to celebrate Independence Day?”

“Patriotic rimjobs.”

Harry looks entirely serious when he meets Louis’ eyes again.

“Harold.”

“Lewis.”

Louis cracks a smile first and then Harry starts laughing. “I’m the American now, you have to trust me. I’m quite familiar with their customs.”

“Harry you live in LA two weeks out of the entire year.”

“Two weeks more than you,” he counters, poking Louis right in the thickest part of his tummy. Louis pushes at his hand, scoffing, and cursing under his breath because he hates that. Really hates it. Had it been any of the other boys they’d be flat out on the floor. Now it only sparks a play fight, the two pushing at each other’s hands until Harry catches tight at Louis’ wrists and gets them pinned tight on the polished counter.

“Mean it though,” he sighs between his teeth as he winds into a smile again. Louis is weak to that sort of look. That fond sort of look, with lashes and eyes and a edgy smirk that even four years later he feels his cheeks heating up for. “Wanna fuck you tonight, Louis. Want you to fuck me, too. Want both.”

It’s only ten AM and Harry’s making promises for the rest of the night. He’d always been that way. Always tying off knots, swearing words, proclaiming grandiose plans, ideas, declarations. Louis is more skittish. He likes to tow the line, test the water. Harry jumps right in and yanks Louis with him.

Not that Louis even notices it anymore. The trepidation is there, sure. But that shock of fear became a source of excitement, easily masked by the way his stomach would fly to his throat at the jump, topple down with the plunge, Harry’s hand in his all the way down.

“In the meantime?” he asks finally, stealing a kiss from Harry’s thick bottom lip, then the top.

“Swim, barbecue, wait for the fireworks. Like...a proper Fourth-of-Juuuu-Liiie.”

He watches Harry swipe his thumb into the left over blueberry filling, coquettishly glances back to Harry’s face as that thumb is pushed past his slightly parted lips onto his tongue. Harry presses down just slightly to give the same sensation of when Louis mouth was full of him. They both breathe through their nose, Louis’ eyes falling shut as he sucks, laughs, grins around the thumb before biting on the tip gently.

Harry laughs, albeit breathlessly. “Your lips are purple,” he says.

-

The day spirals into calm. It’s strangely cloudy this close to the beach, and reminds Louis of home in some ways aside from the temperature. It’s so hot it gets caught up iin his lungs, static and promising thunder in a far off unfulfilling way. Harry promises him it never rains this far into Summer, and he believes him.

Though he imagines Harry in his high-hemed trunks running about trying to save their food from the rain. Him giving up eventually and stopping amongst the hot, heavy drops to kiss Louis as they laugh themselves hoarse. Louis chastising him for bringing the English rain to LA and Harry swearing up and down “this never happens!”.

“This never happens, Lou!” as he dunks them both in the pool. “This never happens!” as he kisses him through a veil of drenched curls, slick lips. “This never happens, Lou!” as thunder rolls somewhere far off and Louis gets his hand underneath those bright yellow trunks and around Harry’s thick cock.

The fantasy fills for the better part of the day as he swims and watches Harry cook. Until they’re sitting outside on the wrought iron antiqued patio furniture, eating Harry’s food and drinking Mexican beer with limes. The sun starts to set in rosy hues, catching bonfire smoke and cooking meat, charcoal and sea salt.

Everything is gathered in his chest, another stone adding weight until he’s grounded and can’t move again. The trite American flag head scarf harry has around the crown of his head, the taste of watermelon, his legs in Harry’s lap, the snick snick snick of the pool filter sucking water from the edge. Harry smells like smoke and cologne and chlorine. Harry’s house, the backyard, the wooden fence, the cut grass, the flowers Harry didn’t plant himself. But he knows, he knows the boy chose each one by hand. Picked the shrubs and roses and daisies and chose secret names. Named the cacti too, the succulents, the birds that’d pop by his bird feeder and wake him up too, too early.

He’s anchored. As permanent to the scenery as the ocean and the hills and the palms.

“The pie is really good,” he grins. And Harry looks so pleased he’s practically glowing. “It’s all good.” Louis gestures to the whole table, filled with the type of food he thinks of when he imagines what the Fourth of July might be like. It doesn’t seem disgenuine at all, though. He likes the smell of cooked corn, of pie and vanilla ice cream, the starchy smell of yellow beer.

“Glad you like it, babe,” Harry says, in a sticky sweet display of domesticity. He kisses Louis with a smacking sound right on his cheek. Licks his own lips like Louis’ skin is as sweet as the melon they’re having. “Glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” Louis promises. With everything the day has brought he feels as though he’s been here all along. Not just got on a plane the night before, flew eleven hours just to make it for a holiday neither of them have historically celebrate. He’d have two days. Sony would yank his leash and he’d back London before he could blink.

It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t see Harry again soon. The ninth would roll around and they’d be only a hundred and a handful miles south in San Diego.

But this was different. This was like being home.

-

It’s mild enough by nine o’clock that they can open their windows all over the house, let the curtains flutter with the breeze and carry the distant popping sound of fireworks all over the neighborhood. This high up in the hills they can watch from Harry’s room as the firework display on the beach illuminates the sky with every color of the sparks. Harry is as mesmerized as a kid would be. Ooohs and aaahs and giggles as each firework takes the stage in the sky.

They stand dumbstruck by the window, and Louis holds his hand. Gives him shit for getting so worked up over “Fireworks Harry, honestly. There’s fireworks at our shows. We seem them once a week”. But they both know Louis finds it so fucking charming that Harry still finds such utter joy in things like this.

Harry is the one to pull him close in and wrap a long arm around him so Louis will lay his temple right to the curve of Harry’s shoulder. His hair must smell like chlorine, but Harry burrows his nose in either way.

“I feel like together right now, Lou. A holiday on our own.”

Louis traces fingers over the wings of the butterfly on Harry’s stomach. “Only because it’s a holiday neither of us celebrate...”

Harry hums in consideration. “We could though. Like American holidays could be ours. Fourth of July...what else?”

“Thanksgiving?” Louis offers. He know he must sound sarcastic, but the thought worms its way into his head. A holiday or two that’s just theirs, no obligations, no appearances to maintain. Birthday’s mean parties and gifts from people who didn’t even know them. Christmas was for family and they couldn’t combine any family holidays. Hell, they weren’t even allowed to see one another on any major holidays anymore.

“Could do Thanksgiving. I could make a big turkey for the two of us. I hear mashed potatoes are a big part of the whole thing,” Harry looks down at him, cheek pressed to his forehead, and Louis can’t help but laugh at the excitement glimmering in his eyes.

“Alright, you had me at the mash,” he says. The fireworks explode with less space between, brighter and brighter until the dark room is lit like the sun is shining through. Harry is grinning, face slotted with shadows. Darkness in his dimples, dug into the creases of his eyelids. Louis kisses under his chin, just for good measure, and wraps himself as close as he can get without falling into him entirely.

“Good show,” Harry mutters encouragingly, while an idle hand sweeps wide circles over Louis’ exposed lower back. He turns and breathes deep, taking in that suffocating pool smell Louis can practically taste on himself.

Harry’s other hand comes to chase Louis chin and catches it between pinched fingers to lift his face up. He smirks before kissing him - that fond smirk, with the lashes and the dimples - and Louis forces them to change positions so he can press their chests together.

Their skin is hot from the day in the sunshine, holding in that heat and making them ashy and dry. Louis wants to taste the sun on Harry’s neck, he wants to have the taste of sunshine and charcoal and summer on his mouth.

So he dips down fast, taking control, and puts his mouth open and wet on Harry’s jaw. Breath catches in Harry’s mouth and dies there, never to be released, held, held, held as lips press to his pulse, his throat, his adam’s apple. Louis sucks a bruise on that spot, just under the slope of his chin. He lets his tongue drag across the expanse of skin between the center of his skin to the side of his neck. Then he lets his teeth sink in and Harry finally reminds himself that he can speak.

“Louis,” he says. A million times or more he’s said that name and christ if it doesn’t sound just as lovely the first time Louis heard the boy say it. He bites again, just to hear it, with thumbs pressing into the divots between each rib.

“Come on to bed, Haz,” Louis says. He pushes gently at Harry’s hipbones, pushes him backwards towards the bed in the center of the room. “Better make good on all those promises from the morning.”

They fall in a heap as Harry whispers “Always.”

Louis never doubted him, but feels a victorious satisfaction at the way Harry gets their trunks off and Louis flat on his back. Hands above his head, limp, waiting for Harry’s hands to meet them. He lets himself be kissed, lets himself be touched from top to bottom, those long fingers, big hands, touching and pressing into all the softest, pliant parts of him. He doesn’t realize how he’s panting, squirming, half hard and aching for something more definitive than a tease.

Harry grins, “Lou it’s only been since last night.”

Louis grabs at his wrist, pressing their lips together to mumble words against his teeth as he grinds into his palm. “And ten days before that…”

There’s no hesitation before Harry takes a good grip of him, strokes him slow and wriggles his body down the bed to lathe his tongue over the head of his cock. It’s startling, because Louis feels his mind already start to slip into that senseless “Harry” space. The same space that made ten days seem like a year. The one that made him stare abashedly at Harry’s lips on camera, that made him jealous without logic, that made him want without reason, that made him come loud and hard and filled with complete and utter love he could burst with it.

Harry laps at him sweetly, lashes over his eyes, but still trying to catch Louis’ gaze. It’s such an effort on his part, that’s less sexy in action as it is on the part of Harry wanting to try to please with such conviction. The sensation is incredible though, and Louis is arching his back into the pillows. He’s trying so hard not to fuck up into Harry’s mouth. Wants to give Harry that chance to perform and take his time. But god those lips.

Pink-purple from the pie, slick and plump and fitted so tightly around Louis’ cock as he sucks him deeper down his throat. Louis grabs at his hair and pulls on his hair until Harry moans around him. The vibration in the back of his throat right on the head of his dick and there’s no holding back.

He bucks ever so slightly, watches Harry’s eyelashes flutter as he moans again. Harry’s loved that feeling. He loves how demanding Louis can be, how impatient. He likes knowing that Louis can’t hold back, because he’s doing such a beautiful job of making that unimaginable for him.

“Haz,” he whispers. “Can I?”

Harry glances up, raises an eyebrow as Louis pulls the mess of his hair away from his face. Mouth still stuffed full, eyes glossed over as he looks up expectantly.

Louis clarifies for him. “Can I fuck your mouth?” His lips are loose and his accent thick, breath coming out jaggedly.

Harry heaves in through his nose and nods, then braces himself on the bed on either side of Louis’ hips. There’s a brief moment where Louis collects the scattered pieces of himself before he starts to pump his hips up in slow, calculated movements. Harry groans, and Louis can’t help the string of curses that spill out onto his chest. He reaches back with his free hand to grab hold of one of the pillows and digs his nails deep.

“Yeah, Hazza,” he gasps out. Nothing stopping him now. “Your mouth is so fucking good.”

Harry whimpers, whimpers, and tries to go deeper.

“Shit,” Louis moans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He can almost hear the little shit laughing.

It takes a monumental effort not to come in Harry’s mouth and one even larger to stop him before he does. He hauls Harry back up to kiss him, tasting the precome on his tongue, the sun staining his cheeks.

“Love you, Harry,” Louis mutters, sliding a hand down his long spine. “Don’t say it enough.”

Harry bows his back to the touch, shifts so Louis will slide his fingers down even further. “Love you, too, Lou. Wish I could say it every second. Still wouldn’t feel like enough.”

Louis laughs, “Don’t get so cheesy, now.”

He shifts his back on the bed so he can reach the side table. The lube is still there from the night before, left out partially by carelessness and partially because they don’t have to hide it from anyone else. Louis slicks his fingers up while Harry straddles his hips and he thinks about those times they had to rush this in some curtain-made dressing room or the bunk of a bus.

Harry squeezes tight at Louis’ shoulders, and without prompting, starts to rock his hips down on two of Louis fingers. The sounds are trapped behind his clenched teeth, but they rumble in his chest and they’re felt like ripples in a pond. A groan as those fingers curl, a whine when they fuck up into him with matching force.

“So pretty, Haz.” Louis mumbles. Harry likes that. He likes being called pretty. And eyes a clear blue as day find his face. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats. “I can’t believe it.”

“Lou,” he breathes.

“C’mere, turn round.”

Harry does so without questioning, but squirms at the first fat stripe of Louis’ tongue over his hole. He giggles, which should be decidedly unsexy, except it is and Louis lets Harry feel the way he’s smiling.

“I promised didn’t I? Patriotic rimjob and all that,” Louis licks at him again and Harry grips his thigh.

“Wasn’t serious,” he mutters.

“Really? You asking me to eat your pie wasn’t a serious request for me to eat you out?” Louis scoffs. “Well I feel lied to.”

Harry is laughing around a moan and his hand busies itself on Louis’ cock. He’s still hard enough that the first touch sends a jolt through him, tense muscle pulling taught to the point he feel like he might break if Harry touches him again. But he doesn’t warn Harry to stop either, and the gentle brush of lips against him is fucking torture.

He takes it very seriously, moving his mouth over Harry, working him open nice and slow so Harry is making the sounds he’d try hiding if he had any sense left. He keeps his eyes closed singing praises into Harry’s skin. Tells him how pretty he is, how lovely he tastes, how this never, never gets old. Focuses his efforts on speaking and forgetting just how much he wants to come into Harry’s mouth.

He’s taken completely by surprise when Harry’s fingers end up slick and circling around his rim. He barks out a laugh in surprise, shifting his hips up ever so slightly so Harry can press a single thick finger inside.

“Your fingers are so bloody long,” he comments breathlessly, feeling the digit go in deep and coax him into placidity. Harry kisses his cock, presses a grin into his thigh.

“s’good though right?” he asks, voice deep and raspy and burrowing into Louis’ hollow chest.

The moan that slips out is utterly embarrassing, and he pants as Harry teases another finger inside, “So good, haz. Jesus…”

“Keep eating me out?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah...fuck…”

He goes on until he can’t anymore.

Harry is leant up farther now, with Louis abandoning his work entirely and instead thrashing his head from side to side one the pillow, because fuck. Fuck. Harry’s got three fingers inside now, curling up at this angle just perfectly to hit that spot on deliberate passes. Intermittent with promise of Harry’s pinky joining, brush against the stretch of his skin like a kiss, cold and smooth and…

“I can’t,” he begs, “Harry I’ve...I’m gonna come...fuck.”

He hardly notices Harry squirming off of him and reappearing between his legs. He doesn’t pull out his fingers, but the curl and shift makes Louis arch, his cock bob aching and he feels himself heave out a sob. He’s never felt so utterly shattered before in his life.

Harry’s voice is so deep and saccharine.

“Please don’t, Lou,” he asks so sweetly. “Please hold off a little longer for me. I want to keep going and I don’t want it to be too much.”

Louis whimpers and the sound is foreign in his own ears, “It already is.”

“Just a little more,” he says. “A little more for me Louis. I...I wanna see how much you can take.”

His pinky finger should be an inconsequential addition all things considered, but god if Louis doesn’t shout at the intrusion. He feels like he might split, and he doesn’t remember sitting up, but his arms are locked behind him to prop him up. He’s panting erratically, and Harry is watching him with lidded eyes as the blunt end of his thumb pushes against him.

“You’re already so close to taking more,” he observes, glancing down. His lips are parted, cross necklace stuck to the sweat on his chest. His curls are damp, eyelashes clumped together.

“Harry.”

Louis is shaking.

“You’re so lovely, god, you’re so, so lovely. What did I do to deserve you?” Harry asks, and he’d looks about as innocent as he did when he was sixteen, if he wasn’t biting at his lip as he watches his thumb breach Louis’ hole.

Louis feels a tear slip down his cheek. He feels so full. Never has felt like this before. Never. It burns, but it feels incredible and his arms give out without warning and the backs of his hands are covering his own mouth as he repeats over and over “oh my god”.

Harry drawls on as he pushes further, pouring more lube over him as Louis’ cock leaks precome so pitfully without the attention he needs. “Can’t believe you haven’t come, yet.”

“T-told me not to.”

That dimpled smile, winning as ever. “Like you ever do as I ask.” He pauses. “You alright?”

Louis nods, because yes god he’s never been better, but at the same time he’s never been worse. He knows he’s crying now, choking out sobs as the dull edges of Harry’s knuckles start to press insistently at him. The twist of Harry’s hand, the feeling of being so fucking full. He’s sure that the only reason he hasn’t come is because he’s paralyzed by what Harry’s doing to him.

“You’re so small, Lou.” The comment makes them both moan. “You’re taking so much…”

The knuckles have filled him now and he’s choking out sobs into the back of his hands.

“Oh my god, Harry,” he begs, “please.” He’s not sure what the hell he’s even asking, but Harry takes it to mean that he wants more.

His hand is so slow as it pumps in and out of him, and the exact moment he pushes in just the slightest bit harder, the slightest bit faster, Louis is coming. He knows must blackout, the way his vision goes dark, but then again he’s not sure if that’s from closing his eyes. He can’t see, can’t hear, just feels this impossible tug on his entire body like hands are all over him, ripping and pushing and pulling him on the bed.

There’s nothing to him, no weight or sound or feeling, and he feels lost until he hears Harry’s voice.

“Lou?”

The deep drawl and then lips on his skin kissing away the mess he’s made. Both hands clasping tight to his hips and he feels the way his body fights them, a trembling mess, chest heaving, and his eyes are open to it and the room and Harry’s own eyes looking up to his own.

Harry cradles his whole body with his own, pulling Louis into his chest suddenly and kissing over the lids of his eyes.

“Oh my god….” he says into Louis sweat damp hair. “I can’t believe….oh my god….are you alright?”

Louis manages the most difficult nod of his life before letting out the first even breath in what feels like ages. Harry strokes his back, kisses his forehead.

“Did y’ come yet?”

It’s stupid to ask, but he is concerned.

Harry leans away enough so he can look down at Louis face. He looks appalled by the question, but there’s almost a ghost of a smile on that mouth that Louis can’t resist reaching up to touch.

“M’serious,” he clarifies for Harry’s benefit.

“No,” a breathless laugh. “You’re honestly asking after all that?”

“Can’t say I don’ care, Harold.”

“Ooooh kaaaay,” he laughs. “Wanna make sure you’re alright first. You don’t even know what you look like right now. Debauched comes to mind”

Louis is one hundred percent certain he’s only saying this because he’s out of his damn mind with that orgasm. But it comes out anyway.

“Know I’d look better with your come dripping out of me.”

Harry goes completely still. Their eyes are still on each others, but Louis can tell his own are almost closed by the dimness that plays on the edges of his vision. Still, he can see the surprise in Harry’s face, the barely-there spark of interest at his words.

So he continues, “Y’already got me so loose. You’d make a right mess, Haz. Have t’ clean me up straight away or else I’d get your come all over my thighs. I’d-”

Harry clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Jesus, Lou, stop.” And for a moment Louis thinks Harry is upset before he feels himself being rolled onto his back.

Harry has to do all the work, since Louis can barely even move his legs let alone keep them open. But Harry doesn’t seem to mind having to grip tight at the thickness of his thighs. He doesn’t even have to guide himself inside, just rolls against him before slipping in with one long stroke and the smack of skin to let them both know he’s bottomed out.

Louis can’t even manage sounds anymore. He’s so over-sensitive he thinks he could die from it. But he just keeps his mouth open, eyes open, so open for Harry as he fucks into him with a sweltering urgency. Rough stuttering slapping skin as Louis moves up the bed while his name is spilled all over him.

Lou, lou, lou, lou.

Harry’s face when he comes is something Louis figures he’ll see when he dies. It’s an experience, almost a religious one if he’s the one who gets to define it. All angelic ringlet curls and cherubic rosy cheeks despite the way Harry’s matured over the years. But there’ll always be a softness to him, one that grows when he finishes and his lashes fall over his cheekbones and his lips give way to a sigh. Near silent until he’s biting off the quiet sounds that follow as he fucks himself through it.

He blankets himself over Louis and Louis weakly reaches his arms around him to hold him. They stay in that way for a long time, with Harry still inside, breath slipping into the even sighs of sleep, bodies burning in each other’s heat.

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” Harry mumbles into Louis hair. He pulls out slowly and Louis squirms with a hoarse whimper at the slow drag of his cock. Too weak do much else.

But he still manages to take old of Harry’s wrist when he starts to roll away. Harry stops and glances down at him, which he can only see through the slits of his barely open eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Harry seems to understand anyway, and he nestles himself to Louis side, cheek resting on Louis chest just over the 78.

Outside the fireworks are still going, booming loud enough to shake the house, and dogs are barking up and down the street. The ceiling fan in the next room is nothing but a repetitive tinkering sound, the curtains swishing with the breeze, and Harry’s even breaths are almost cool against Louis’ neck. He twists his head just enough to dig his nose into the thick curls. Lets them tangle in his eyelashes and tickle at his skin. Harry hums and slides a palm flat over Louis’ belly.

“Happy Fourth of July,” he says with a chuckle.

Louis wheezes out a laugh in response, “If this is w’ this holiday s’bout I’m behind it a hundred pe’cent.”

He can hear how lazy he’s being with his words. But he also knows Harry finds it charming when he forgets himself and slips into that horrendously thick accent of his. There are hands squeezing him, a smile touching his jaw, lashes lickling at his cheek.

“Love your waist,” Harry says, “Love your hips, too. Your bum.”

Louis grins. “Y’always grabbin at it,” he chides.

“Like it a lot. Like you a lot.”

They glance at one another at the same time and Louis holds Harry’s eyes for a heartbeat or two before pressing his dry lips to Harry’s forehead. “Like you more if you helped me to the shower, I think.”

Harry grins. Louis isn’t looking but he can feel the tension in his skin. Harry will have crows feet one day. Wrinkles and grey hair and his hairline will be even more atrocious than it is now. There’ll be more hot July’s and more Independences and tiny revolutions and colors in the sky over the pacific. And he and Harry will watch from their window. Their window.

He doesn’t say anything, but Harry nods in the affirmative about the shower.

Neither of them want to be the first to move.

**Author's Note:**

> One direction tumblr: pappylou  
> Main blog: infinitygauntlets  
> I talk about Louis' ankles on twitter: @effigees
> 
> also fun fact I will be at the San Diego show.


End file.
